


the darker side of fairy tales

by zombeesknees



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 19:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17049554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombeesknees/pseuds/zombeesknees
Summary: The Doctor and Rose visit Disneyland and discover quite a lot more than they expected. | Set after “The Idiot’s Lantern” and heavily inspired by Terry Pratchett'sWitches Abroad. Written for/winner of Challenge 51 of then_theres_us at LJ many moons ago.





	the darker side of fairy tales

Disneyland was supposed to be a place of magic and wonder and of dreams coming true. 

Well, _someone’s_ dreams had been coming true. Dreams that, from another perspective, would have been called nightmares.

There could have been no predicting that—mere moments after they stepped from the TARDIS and looked up through the early morning air of June 18th, 1962 at the new, glittering sign reading **DISNEYLAND** —they would discover there had been far darker things going on behind the façade of fairy tale castles and men in mouse costumes.

Rose had always known, at the core level, that Disney had sanitized its stories into something more marketable and ‘family-friendly’. She knew the old fairy tales had been packed to the brim with blood and maimed feet and songbirds that plucked girls’ eyes from their sockets. The witches had been far sneakier and more powerful; the evil queens had been merciless and brutal. And even a happy ending didn’t necessarily mean sugar-coated cakes and joyful dancing—sometimes happy endings had to be bought with even more blood.

But it wasn’t until they chased the strange old woman and stumbled into the room of skeletons that Rose began to _understand_ what those stories truly meant, and what Disney had done to them.

It was a disconcerting room. The average person who happened across it would think it highly unusual: a museum-like section of the park locked away from the public, full of re-articulated animal skeletons. It didn’t belong at Disneyland. It was an anomaly.

But the Doctor could see beyond that. It wasn’t just that this room was out of place. Something incongruous. It was that this room should never have existed at all. No one, especially on Earth, should have found these old—no, _ancient_ —bones. They should not have been rebuilt and put on display. These were not simply animal bones.

“The Siranxthia,” the Doctor murmured, his grief naked and terrible. “One of the first, great races. A proud people who guided so many others to the stars.”

“What happened to them?” Rose asked quietly, her hand tight around his. 

“They disappeared. My people looked for them—the Siranxthia and Time Lords had been allies, friends—but no one found a trace of them. We could never explain what had happened to them, and we mourned them. Rightfully so, it would seem.”

He lifted a hand, laid it gently against a dry, bleached shoulder bone. “This place is wrong. Everything here is wrong. Whoever brought these bones to Earth has an explanation to make. And a debt to pay, if they had anything to do with the death of the Siranxthia.”

“Doctor,” Rose said, her heart constricting in her chest. Rarely had she seen such pain and anger in his eyes—he didn’t look like the Doctor now, he looked like a wrathful god, the power of the cosmos glowing beneath his skin as if his body was only a vessel for some great, unknowable force. “We have to find the old woman. For Betsy’s sake.”

He looked at her, properly looked at her, and seemed to diminish and lose some of his fury. Rose was right. The Siranxthia deserved justice, yes, but there was still a living, breathing child who needed their help. Betsy Dickson was more important than dead bones.

\---

Three hours ago she’d been eating an ice cream cone (chocolate with sprinkles; the Doctor had ordered a banana split). They’d been posing for a picture with Mickey and Minnie. She’d convinced him to join her on the spinning teacups, and afterwards he’d complained that they should have gotten their ice cream _afterwards_ while she laughed at his weak stomach. She’d made the Doctor try on an assortment of silly hats and bought a souvenir shot glass for her mum. He’d rattled off some interesting factoids about the construction of the park and how many famous people the Walt Disney Company would inspire in the coming decades, their entwined hands swinging easily between them.

It had been a lovely morning. One of the nicest she’d had in a long time what with being rejected by her father (no, not her _real_ father, that Pete Tyler was a different man) and saying goodbye to Mickey for the last time. It had been nice, and calm, and silly. 

And then she saw the crying girl.

She was wearing a white dress with a red ribbon in her dark hair. People walking past her gave the occasional sympathetic glance, but no one stopped to help her. It was as if they noticed her, but then their attention slipped away like fog on cold glass. 

But Rose had noticed her and refused to be distracted. The Doctor was still standing in line to buy a pair of novelty sunglasses, so she went across the path alone.

“Hey there,” she said quietly, kneeling down. “My name’s Rose. What’s your name?”

“Betsy,” the girl sniffled. She rubbed her eyes with tiny balled-up fists. The poor girl couldn’t be more than six or seven. “Betsy Dickson.”

“What’s wrong, Betsy?”

“I can’t find my mommy or daddy,” she sobbed. 

“I’ll help you find them, okay? What does your mummy look like?”

“She’s got long black hair and brown eyes and she’s real tall. She’s got her favorite pink dress on. And Daddy’s got a black hat and coat.”

“Hold on just a sec, Betsy, alright? I’m gonna go get my friend and we’ll find your parents.”

“Okay,” Betsy said, her tears subsiding slowly. “Thank you.”

“Doctor, there’s a little lost girl,” Rose said breathlessly, grabbing his arm. The cashier was just handing back his psychic paper (“Funniest check card I’ve ever seen,” the woman muttered) and his receipt. 

“Hmm?” he asked, slipping on the giant sunglasses.

“There’s a little girl named Betsy Dickson outside,” Rose explained, pulling him through the crowd of shopping tourists. “She’s lost her mum and dad, we need to help her.” She stopped short. “Where did she go?”

“Rose!”

They turned sharply at the shrill scream, just in time to see Betsy Dickson pulled down a side path by an old woman in a brown dress. 

“Let her go!” Rose shouted, immediately giving chase. The Doctor wasn’t more than a half step behind her, the soles of his Converse slapping loudly against the concrete. “Someone stop that woman, that little girl doesn’t belong with her!”

It was impossible—somehow in the half-minute it took for them to turn the corner, the old woman and Betsy had disappeared completely.

“Why didn’t anyone listen to me?” Rose cried, gasping for breath. “It’s like they didn’t even notice!”

“Perception filter,” the Doctor said in an undertone. “People heard you, but when they turned to look it was as if their eyes moved directly past them. Something not of this world is going on. We need to find that old woman.”

\---

Rose wished it had been a simple abduction. That was bad enough: regular, if sick, people snatching little kids in the middle of a theme park. People who would do that saw the children they grabbed as nothing more than playthings to be discarded, which was still horrible and wrong.

But the truth was somehow worse. Betsy Dickson hadn’t been just a plaything—she’d been a tool. A means to an end. 

And what a sickening end the old woman had planned…

“There are roles to fill,” the woman-who-was-not-really-a-woman laughed. No, she cackled — because even she was playing a part. “Stories need feeding if they’re to work properly. There has to be the right spark, the proper seed that sets them to growing. You’ve got to have the bits before you can have the whole.”

“Stop this,” Rose pleaded, struggling against the ropes. 

“You can’t stop a thing like this once it’s started,” the woman admonished. “You can only let the flow carry you along — or stand outside it all and watch.”

Rose looked at the table where the Doctor lay, unconscious and still. She _prayed_ he was only unconscious; that the strange gun the woman had fired at him hadn’t caused more damage, that he wasn’t—

“What about me, then?” Rose demanded. “What did you have planned for me?”

“There always has to be a victim,” the woman said softly, plucking at a few more strings on the strange contraption before her, tuning her complicated instrument. “A damsel in distress, the savages’ captive. A trapped princess in need of a knight. You’ll fit the part quite nicely, my dear.”

“And the Doctor?”

“A mad scientist is an essential component of so many stories. There has to be _someone_ who falls from grace and creates the terrible monster. Someone for the wounded townsfolk or a higher power to punish for his hubris.”

Rose could feel the ropes loosening around one of her wrists. She took care to keep her expression free of the wild excitement she felt and threw out another distraction. “Betsy! Betsy, can you hear me?”

“Now now, don’t wake the poor child,” the woman chided, stepping away from her machine just long enough to stroke a wrinkled, claw-like hand against the girl’s pale cheek. “She’s far too deep into the story to wake up now—it would spoil the whole tale if she heard you. She’s hard at work cleaning the dwarves’ cottage by now.”

“How many people have you kidnapped?” Rose demanded loudly, her hand sliding free. She set to work loosening the knot around the other. “How many have you put into these stories of yours?”

“People? People aren’t important, girl. It’s the _characters_ that matter. They’re what echo down through the ages. On every planet and around every star. The stories have to live — because without stories what are we? Nothing. Less than. Stories are what make people _people_ , foolish child. Every race in all of the universe _needs_ stories to tell. Stories give people hope and teach them lessons. Everyone needs a good story. And the stories require a certain amount of sacrifice. I pay it, as I always have, for the good of _everyone_.”

“What about the Siranxthia? We saw the bones.”

“Do you know how many stories feature talking animals?” The woman smiled to herself. “On this planet alone? Aesop and Anansi and _Gulliver’s Travels_. The Siranxthia fit those roles so nicely—I only had to use one little race to make all of those stories live, which is quite a bargain if I do say so.”

“You’re sick,” Rose said in disgust, both hands now free. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Forever, girlie. Forever. I’m older than just about everything else in the universe. You could say I’m the first storyteller. The beginning of it all. This plane would be a much darker, emptier, more hopeless place without me,” she said with pride. “And you should be proud, too, missy. Because, of all the races in all of the galaxies, you humans have been some of the best when it comes to stories. Look at this place! You’ve built worlds within worlds just for your stories! Nowhere else can they flourish and grow like this. I love this place, this world—so much energy and potential, and just the right environment.

“And now,” the Storyteller said with a satisfied smile, bending to rummage in a large bag, straightening slowly and lifting up a huge, glittering needle. “Time to weave you and your clever man into a story.” She turned to face Rose, only to stare down at a pile of loose ropes.

“Come out, my pretty,” the woman crooned, turning. 

“I think your biggest mistake,” a voice said lightly from the table, the Doctor opening one eye with a cheeky smile, “was telling her she was the damsel in distress. Rose Tyler’s more of a steal-the-knight’s-sword-and-slay-the-dragon-herself sort of girl.”

The Storyteller lunged toward him, needle held high and dagger-like in one clawed hand, just as Rose threw back the curtain she’d been hiding behind and ran for the machine, the fire extinguisher in her hands swinging through the air with a defiant and resounding _thwack_.

For a moment — a single silvered fraction of a heart-beat — everything froze. 

Then the strings snapped as one, slicing viciously through the air, stopped only by the closest body they struck. The old woman swayed and then toppled silently backwards, the wreckage of her story-weaving machine collapsing over her.

“Couldn’t find a sword,” Rose said, staring down at the twisted, mangled aftermath. The extinguisher dropped from her hands and rolled across the floor with a metallic thud. “Had to make do.”

The Doctor heaved himself up from the table with a wince, standing unsteadily but with determination. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah. Fine. Sure.”

He hesitated, concerned by the blank look on her face. 

But then Betsy stirred, moaning softly, and he knelt beside the pale girl, screwdriver whirring in his hand as he pulled her from the dream world of the story.

Sometimes happy endings must be paid for in blood. 

Real _and_ metaphysical.

\---

An hour later Betsy Dickson was reunited with her tearful, relieved parents. The girl was very quiet and subdued, but she managed a smile and shy hug for Rose.

“Thank you,” she whispered in her ear. “I didn’t like that dream place. They made me wash dishes.”

Rose found she could laugh a little at that, and waved after the family as they left, Betsy’s mother holding her daughter’s hand with a fierceness born of heartfelt anxiety. 

“Rose?”

She looked down at the hand he held out to her. She took it silently and followed him out of the park.

He stopped beneath the entrance sign. The TARDIS stood just across the highway, a reassuring beacon of home and security. 

“Rose, tell me you’re alright. Tell me and convince me.”

She was silent for so long he was afraid she wouldn’t answer at all. But then her arms were around him and she was balling his jacket in her hands, a slight tremor running through her body. “Hold me, Doctor. For just a minute. I want to feel real and solid again.”

He didn’t hesitate, returning the embrace with just as much strength. He smoothed back her hair and kissed her cheek, letting her tuck herself against him like a child in need of reassurance. 

It took several minutes for her to stop trembling, for her breathing to even out. He rubbed her back softly until she was ready to pull away.

Finally, she met his eyes. “That was one of the most horrible things I’ve ever heard,” she said quietly. “Knowing that people were drained like that just to make stories happen—that entire races died so we could have fairy tales and campfire ghost stories…”

“That wasn’t true,” the Doctor said. “I can be wrong sometimes, about nearly any and everything. You know that—I promise you Barcelona and we get Cardiff, I say Elvis and we get hungry televisions.”

She smiled wanly at that.

“But sometimes I _know_ when someone else is wrong. I can feel it. And that creature back there was warping the truth and turning it into something cruel and misshapen. Yes, stories all have to start somewhere—but she didn’t start them. The people she murdered didn’t create the fairy tales you grew up loving. She _thought_ they did — but she was wrong. Don’t feel guilty for her madness. Don’t hate the stories from your childhood because of what she did. There was only one thing that woman got right: we _do_ need stories. Stories make us more than what we are. They make us better. Stories make life worth living.”

“But are they worth dying for, Doctor?”

He stared at her for a long time as the dusk deepened around them. He studied the lines of her face, the hair mussed by the wind, the dark, guileless eyes that begged him for an honest answer. He thought of the Bad Wolf and how this beautiful, flawed, oh-so-human girl had taken those words and scattered them, creating a story that brought them back together, that saved the universe. A story she would never remember fully — but one he would never forget.

“…Sometimes they are,” he said softly, brushing the wisps of hair from her face, cupping her cheek gently. “Some stories are worth anything you could give.”


End file.
